


How Much Is That Doggy In The Window

by pocketsebastian



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dogs, M/M, Sherlock is a Brat, Valentine's Day, greg is a dumb dumb but it's okay because he makes sherlock happy, greg's internal dialogue has a lot of swearing, just a lot of swearing in general
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 16:03:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1191144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketsebastian/pseuds/pocketsebastian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's a brat, Greg's an idiot, and Valentine's Day is a commercialism scam that Greg has to buy into because Sherlock is, as stated, a brat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Much Is That Doggy In The Window

Pink. Red. White. Pink. Red. White. Every. Fucking. Store. Pink. Red. White.

All Greg wanted was to get Sherlock some fucking present for Valentine’s day, but the fucking stores—Greg vows that next year, he shops in advance—are decked out in fucking pink, red, and white colours. He wants to shred every one of the little hearts just to get their obnoxiousness out of his face. Okay, so perhaps it was his own fault that he was out on the day of Valentine’s Day looking for a present for Sherlock, but to be fair, he hadn’t thought that the man would actually _want_ anything. Sherlock never seemed like the type to enjoy the holiday, as useless and ridiculous as it was (‘commercialism codswallop’, Greg would mutter at each advertisement), and so Greg had let it be, figuring everything would be fine.

Well evidently that was not how it was going to work.

As soon as Sherlock had managed to realize that the day was Valentine’s Day—running on four days without sleep and spending most of his time working on some experiment that required the kitchen sink, some dirty laundry, and pig’s blood, as well as not allowing Greg access to his own damn kitchen—he’d set to making Greg some breakfast. At first, Greg had assumed it was an apology for being banished from the kitchen, but it had become clear that this was his present—burnt toast, questionable eggs considering their proximity to the experiment, and cold coffee. Well, it wasn’t perfect, but it was more than Greg figured he’d get.

Shooing Sherlock off to bed, Greg had forced himself out onto the streets, scouring for a present for the impossible consulting detective. Of course. Of bloody _course_. The one time Greg thought he had everything about Sherlock down to a ‘T’ and the fucker did a 180° on him and turned everything upside down, topsy-turvy.

Three hours he’d been scouring the shops. Everything available _–_ though not a lot _–_ would find itself in the trash if he presented it to Sherlock. Greg really couldn’t blame him. Any of the things he was finding would end up in the trash if given to him as well.

His phone vibrated in his pocket, and Greg hesitated. That would be Sherlock, probably. The man probably didn’t want to sleep and wanted, instead, to annoy the hell out of Greg. Probably knew that the DI hadn’t gotten him anything, too. That’d be Greg’s luck, at least. With a dismal groan, Greg opened the message, frowning at the contact. Well, it wasn’t Sherlock.

_You’ll find a deposit of money in your account. Coincidentally, there is a litter of puppies being sold a ten minute walk from where you’re at right now. As luck would have it, they’re for the same amount as the sum in your account. –A_

Greg stared at the text, frowning to himself. Mycroft. Of fucking course. Found out where Greg was at, what he was doing, and decided to butt his head into Greg and Sherlock’s business. Still, Sherlock _did_ seem to like dogs. Every time someone’s dog at the Yard had a litter and brought the pups round, Sherlock kept a peculiarly close distance to the mongrels, one hand usually dipped into the pen to scratch at one’s ear or belly.

With little lead on where else to go, Greg got the directions from Mycroft, knowing full well this was his best option as to where to find Sherlock’s present. Honestly, if he didn’t like the mutt, Greg could just bring it to the Met and see if they needed a new recruit. Once it got a bit bigger, of course.

The puppies, it turned out, were Greyhounds. Nothing too flashy, thank god. Like poodles or some shit like that. No, just a dog that needed a ton of running. Well, it’d give Sherlock a reason to get out of the house more often, if he actually liked the pup. The kindly woman who was selling the puppies let him into the pen, and he was immediately swarmed by five or six (there were too many wriggling bodies and wagging tails to count) circling and jumping on him.

It took half an hour, but eventually he had a squirming, snuffling, lump of dog in his arms, lapping at his cheek. The black fur, as short as it was, rubbed against Greg’s morning scruff, having not had a chance to shave before the whole Valentine’s Day ordeal started. “Well,” Greg started, his voice gruff as the puppy squirmed in his grasp, wagging her tail as she wriggled and yipped, “If Sherlock doesn’t like you, that’s his fucking problem.” Greg was rather fond of the puppy, having endured the last half hour of her trying to yank off his trousers via pulling on the—now tattered—fabric of his trouser leg.

A few years down the line, and Greg would have told Sherlock he could wait for his Valentine’s Day gift. The first one of them being together, however, was not going to happen. Shifting the dog’s weight in his arms, so he was holding the puppy almost like it was an infant with its rump in one hand and his other hand resting on its back while the pup’s paws curled around his shoulder, he kicked the door of his and Sherlock’s flat with the toe of his boot. Sherlock was awake, judging by the noises coming from the flat.

“Close yer eyes,” Greg said when he heard the other man approach the door. There was a pause, as if Sherlock was wondering what was going on, and then finally the door opened. Gently hushing the dog, Greg glanced at Sherlock, noting that the consultant’s eyes were, thankfully, shut. “Now, I know you have a mental map of our flat. Go to the sitting room and sit on the sofa. No opening your eyes until I say so, yeah?” There was no verbal response, but Sherlock gave a nod of his head. When Sherlock was settled on the sofa, the dog was thankfully quiet the whole time, Greg set the Greyhound on the floor, watching it snuffle around before catching Sherlock’s scent. “Open.”

The puppy barked, and then leapt up into Sherlock’s lap, licking at the younger man’s neck, before Sherlock had even opened his eyes. With the force of the dog jumping on him, Sherlock slumped backwards, making an ‘oohmph’ noise when he hit the back of the sofa. Greg hesitated, watching his partner and lover stare at the dog, obviously surprised. After a few awkward moments of silence, aside from the dog scrabbling down from Sherlock’s lap to the floor to explore her new surroundings, Sherlock finally spoke.

“A dog.”

“…well, I thought you’d like it.”

“You got me a dog.”

“…Is that bad?”

“I make you burnt toast—“

“—it was a good breakfast, love. I like my eggs, er, possibly still containing salmonella.”

“I make your _burnt toast_ and you _buy_ me _a dog_.”

“Well, it was, uh—“

Greg was lost for words. Sherlock didn’t seem _angry_ but he certainly didn’t seem happy, which put Greg off balance and unsure as to what to say or do. An angry Sherlock wasn’t what he wanted, certainly not on a day where couples were supposed to express their love, and he definitely didn’t want a sulky or upset Sherlock.

“My gift to you was complete _shit_. Next year, I’m going to do better.” Sherlock said it with such a determination and sense of finality that Greg didn’t see the need to argue or tell him it wasn’t necessary. Really, it honestly wasn’t. Greg wasn’t much of a person for Valentine’s Day to begin with, and he was honestly surprised that Sherlock hadn’t realized that considering Greg had rolled his eyes at every display in the shops when he and Sherlock had been out and about doing shopping for the past few weeks.

Three days later over breakfast, Greg found out Sherlock _was_ well aware of that fact and had just wanted to see Greg squirm. Getting Dalton the Greyhound out of the ordeal was just an added bonus.

“I figured you’d come back home a few hours later with nothing, to be honest. I didn’t expect my brother to help you find me a present.”

Bless quick reflexes, or Sherlock would have been nursing a burn earned from a flying piece of bacon.

**Author's Note:**

> I hurried the ending, admittedly, because it's already a day late, and because if I didn't finish it tonight, I'd never finish or work on it again. I also just really like writing about Sherlock and dogs, and especially Greg giving Sherlock dogs.


End file.
